“There was, to my mind, a threat contained in the last sentence—­a threat of authoritative intervention.  At this my pride took fire.

“‘Cannot permit!’ I said, drawing myself up.  ’What do you mean, Mr. Cleveland?’

“The brow of my husband instantly flushed.  He was silent for a moment or two.  Then he said, with forced calmness, yet in a resolute, meaning tone—­

“‘Jane, I do not wish you to keep company with Mrs. Corbin.’

“‘I WILL!’ was my indignant reply.

“His face grew deadly pale.  For a moment his whole frame trembled as if some fearful struggle were going on within.  Then he quietly arose, and, without looking at me, left the room.  Oh! how deeply did I regret uttering those unhappy words the instant they were spoken!  But repentance came too late.  For about the space of ten minutes, pride struggled with affection and duty.  At the end of that time the latter triumphed, and I hastened after my husband to ask his forgiveness for what I said.  But he was not in the parlours.  He was not in the house!  I asked a servant if she had seen him, and received for reply that he had gone out.

“Anxiously passed the hours until nightfall.  The sad twilight, as it gathered dimly around, threw a deeper gloom over my heart.  My husband usually came home before dark.  Now he was away beyond his accustomed hour.  Instead of returning gladly to meet his young wife, he was staying away, because that young wife had thrown off the attractions of love and presented to him features harsh and repulsive.  How anxiously I longed to hear the sound of his footsteps—­to see his face—­to hear his voice!  The moment of his entrance I resolved should be the moment of my humble confession of wrong—­of my faithful promise never again to set up my will determinedly in opposition to his judgment.  But minute after minute passed after nightfall—­hours succeeded minutes—­and these rolled on until the whole night wore away, and he came not back to me.  As the gray light of morning stole into my chamber, a terrible fear took hold of me, that made my heart grow still in my bosom—­the fear that he would never return—­that I had driven him off from me.  Alas! this fear was too nigh the truth.  The whole of that day passed, and the next and the next, without any tidings.  No one had seen him since he left me.  An anxious excitement spread among all his friends.  The only account I could give of him, was, that he had parted from me in good health, and in a sane mind.

“A week rolled by, and still no word came.  I was nearly distracted.  What I suffered, no tongue can tell, no heart conceive.  I have often wondered that I did not become insane but from this sad condition I was saved.  Through all, my reason, though often trembling, did not once forsake me.  It was on the tenth day from that upon which we had jarred so heavily as to be driven widely asunder, that a letter came to me, post-marked New York, and endorsed